At First Sight
by snapsandprongsforever
Summary: Grantaire knew that it was only a matter of time before Enjolras left his life. It took months of a muttering Enjolras, cooling tea, and destroyed artwork before he gets his answer.


When Grantaire first saw Enjolras, he knew that any attempt he would make to replicate that high brow, those piercing blue eyes or the passionate lips would always fall short. After all, a parasite daring to paint a god is blasphemy. This did not stop Grantaire from memorizing every graceful line of Enjolras, imprinting him on the back of his eyelids, drinking in his presence which soon became more necessary to him than the pleasant buzz of alcohol, than the release of a cigarette, than breathing, more vital than life itself, for the two had become inextricably entwined.

Grantaire made a study of Enjolras, tracking his movements, noting his habits, learning his ticks and his flaws, recognizing what Enjolras wanted before Enjolras himself knew, hoarding away the glimpses of Enjolras that he earned little by little. He learned Enjolras in and out. It wasn't a conscious effort, but he would find himself knowing to hand Enjolras a pen before he even asked for one, caught between blushing and smirking at the raised eyebrow he received in return, all the while questioning what it was that made Enjolras so fascinating to him.

Grantaire sometimes used this extensive knowledge to be nice to Enjolras. Grantaire handed Enjolras the coffee he liked, two sugars, before he even asked, just to see the long slender fingers wrap around the mug, calloused thumb working up and down the handle. He made scathing jokes on the patriarchy to watch the blinding flash of Enjolras' teeth in his direction. He used outrageous puns at every opportunity in order to attract Enjolras' amused glance, and if he was lucky, Enjolras would let out a giggle that made Grantaire's chest clench. Grantaire would make him go for a walk when he saw him chew the inside of his cheek and tap his fingers incessantly, tell tale signs of his pent up stress. When harsh lines of disappointment punctuate Enjolras' cheeks, Grantaire tucks a strand of golden hair behind his ear, fingers brushing the delicate shell of his ear and feels Enjolras' shiver of surprise. Grantaire made Enjolras' eyes soften by singing songs about love and revolution. These were on Grantaire's good days, the days he could see why people believed in God. The days where his coffee was perfect and he didn't feel sick with the need for a drink. Those days did not often find a place in Grantaire's life which seemed to him to be a black hole that only ever sucked up his hopes and dreams before they were even formed, granting only days that were less bleak in comparison to the rest of his achingly hollow days.

More often than not, Grantaire armed himself with his knowledge of Enjolras and used it to rile him up; arguing in favor of the side he knew would burrow under Enjolras' skin the most that night. This was usually determined by noting the words that made him stiffen, and when the brackets around his mouth appeared, Grantaire knew he had hit a bull's eye and would hone in on that argument. He desperately needed to see that passion in Enjolras' eyes, know that he had put it there, that he was the only one capable of driving Enjolras this close to the brink. It was the only sort of passion he would receive from Enjolras, and Grantaire knew it was the only attention he deserved from this man contained in such a mortal prison. There is a thin line between love and hate; if Grantaire could not have his love, he would gladly settle for the fire that burned in the other man's eyes during their arguments where they yelled themselves hoarse, faces inches away from each other, Grantaire's eyes trained on the vein pulsing on that noble temple, the flushed cheeks and the heaving chest. It was all he could do not to shove Enjolras into the wall and kiss him senseless, directing his rage into something much more enjoyable. But he never dared; heaven would smite him with righteous anger at his presumption. After the arguments ended by one of them inevitably storming out, Grantaire would go find his release somewhere, anywhere, keeping his eyes closed in order to see the image of Enjolras etched there in the dark. It never made him feel any better, furthering him even more from the god he venerated, but he had long ago come to peace with the fact that he is only a man, and slave to mortal desires.

Grantaire knew that soon Enjolras would get sick of him, would tell him to leave forever, and Grantaire would disappear from his life and drift through the remainder of his measly existence. He was somewhat baffled that it hadn't happened yet. He braced himself for the inevitable fall through, tracking Enjolras' movements with increasing despair as time went on because it was running out, and he had to cram enough Enjolras in his head to last him the rest of his life. It would be short; no doubt Grantaire would surely drink himself to death long before his original expiration date, especially when he lacked Enjolras, the only man to ever make him believe or hope since his youth. But there was always something more to discover about Enjolras, one more layer to peel back, one more argument to fire at him, one last look to capture the furrow of his brow or the dimples that rarely made an appearance, due to their harmful nature to Grantaire's heartbeat. Grantaire got the impression that there would always be one more thing to discover about Enjolras, and his heart ached with the desire to be around long enough to learn even more about him, to be constantly surprised by him.

So it really came as no surprise to Grantaire to find Enjolras on his doorstep one night, soaked from the downpour that graced the streets of Paris. Grantaire had just been on one of his binges of inspiration that caused him to crank out paintings without taking a break until his hands trembled with effort and his back ached, never pausing for food or drink, even alcohol. He had just set down his brush and headed toward the kitchen for a drink when he heard the hollow knocking on his door that seemed to resound through his entire body as he looked with dread towards the door. He knew it was Enjolras. Grantaire had been acting up more than usual this week, his frustration escalating as he desperately struggled between his desire to remain by Enjolras as long as he could and the self-preserving whisper of his heart that warned him to leave now, to get out alive while he still could. It was only natural that Enjolras would check up on the increasingly bizarre behavior of his favorite cynic, therefore the god himself had come to grace the sewage with his presence.

Bracing himself, Grantaire padded over to the door and took a few shaky breaths that sounded too loud to his own ears before pulling the door open with a plastered grin on his face that fell there with a practiced ease. Enjolras stood there hunched, his knuckles white against the doorframe, red coat soaked through, rivulets running through his flattened curls and down the chiseled cheekbones. At the creak of the opening door, Enjolras looked up and Grantaire's smile and casual attitude slipped at the tortured look in the other mans blue orbs. "Are you alright?" he asked, voice husky from lack of use.

Enjolras chuckled bitterly and Grantaire was shocked. He had never heard such a scathing sound come from Enjolras' mouth before. "I am far from alright, Grantaire," Enjolras supplied sardonically, but with an edge of desperation that betrayed how close he was to snapping. Grantaire stepped backwards in surprise and Enjolras took this opportunity to step forward into the small hallway and slam the door shut, kicking off his shoes and flinging his jacket across the room before stepping around Grantaire to flop on to his couch and cross his arms.

Grantaire approached him hesitantly, unsure what had brought this anger and frustration, but reasonably certain that he was part of the problem. He noted the goose bumps that dot Enjolras' arms and takes in the drops of water gracefully beginning their downward journey onto Grantaire's favorite, and also single, green couch. "You're getting my couch wet. It's going to smell bad."

Enjolras snorts and huffs out a breath, muttering to himself as his scowl deepens. Grantaire couldn't make out what he was saying, but it probably wasn't very favorable anyway so he let it go and went to fetch a few towels from the cupboard. He again approached Enjolras, who was still muttering to himself absentmindedly while rubbing his tapered hands over his arms in a valiant attempt to warm himself. Grantaire tossed a towel into Enjolras' lap, but he ignored it, deciding to look around Grantaire's flat instead. Grantaire sighed and realized that Enjolras wasn't going to talk anytime soon so he steered himself towards the kitchen to make some coffee, since it appeared that Enjolras wished to take his time before bringing his full wrath down on Grantaire's head. When he returned to his living room, Enjolras was still as wet as a drowned puppy; in fact he vaguely resembled a disgruntled one with the reproachful stares Grantaire was receiving. Grantaire placed the coffee on the table and resignedly picked up the towel and rubbed it over Enjoras' soaked curls with careful attention not to pull too hard or to knot it excessively.

Then he left Enjolras to get something to eat for himself, his stomach complaining loudly at the lack of food in the last day that he had spent absorbed in his painting. He took a swig of whiskey first, because there was no way he was going to make it through this confrontation in one piece without it. Not if Enjolras' muttering was just working up to one of his tirades about Grantaire's hopelessness. He quickly fixed himself some food and ate in the kitchen, knowing that if he went into the living room it would be over all too fast. Enjolras would eventually come find him. After he washed up, he realized that Enjolras' muttering had ceased. Curious, Grantaire poked his head into the other room, eyes sweeping the bookcases and the carpet before landing on the damp green couch that was empty of all but the crumpled towel.

Grantaire checked the entry hallway for Enjolras' shoes and coat, which were still there. He then heard footsteps down the hall, in the direction of his studio. Frowning, Grantaire headed through the hallway and pushed the door into the petit studio that was crammed with artwork that he had labored over. Enjolras stood ramrod straight in the center of the room, absorbing the paintings, deep in thought. Grantaire winced. It had been ages since he had let someone see his artwork. After he had dropped out of art school, he felt it worthless and much too intimate to display. There is something searingly vulnerable in painting that Grantaire has never liked, and here was this god gazing at the most buried parts of his soul. Grantaire waited with baited breath for the judgment to come down, for yet another thing that Enjolras could scoff at. The silence rang with echoes of Enjolras' voice, yet Enjolras himself didn't seem affected. Instead he lifted his finger to a painting of Cosette and said "I like this one."

Grantaire frowned. "What?" His voice sounded too high pitched and his heartbeat was thundering in his ears as short breaths left his mouth. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. Had Enjolras complimented his painting?

"I said that I like this one. Especially the eyes. I think you really got her essence in her eyes alone." Enjolras turned to look at Grantaire then and he felt himself drowning in those soft eyes. Those blue eyes that had so often pierced his heart with shards of ice looked at him with an emotion that Grantaire didn't dare examine. He felt as if he was precipice, staring into the dizzying emptiness before him. How did someone delve forward into such unknown territory, opening himself up to a vulnerability that could leave him dashed on the jagged rocks below? His chest was tight and he was conscious of the cool dampness that sweat left on his palms.

"Thank you" Grantaire whispered, voice slightly husky. "I couldn't get her quite right though."

"Nonsense, R" Enjolras seemed defensive, as if his taste of art had been considered inferior. "It's amazing." Enjolras' tone dared him to argue, to let him prove Grantaire wrong. Grantaire let it drop and there was an imperceptible flinch in Enjolras' face as Grantaire put his hands up in surrender. Grantaire turned abruptly and left the room, needing air, needing to be free of Enjolras' penetrating stare, feeling those eyes boring into the back of his head as he walked stiffly through the door. He headed to the kitchen and shakily started to make coffee, not trusting himself to actual alcohol because Enjolras didn't need to see him that drunk. He wasn't going to sleep tonight, he already knew. He would spend the entire night pacing in his studio, torn between destroying his feeble attempts at artwork and caressing them, as he remembered Enjolras' words, too anxious for alcohol even.

He knew that Enjolras had followed him, that he had adopted a relaxed pose as he leaned against the doorframe of the room, watching Grantaire through narrowed eyes. Grantaire's shoulders defensively went up when Enjolras broke the silence. "I really do like them Grantaire." Grantaire remained motionless, trying to tamp down the hope blooming in the pit of his belly. Enjolras turned and left the flat. Grantaire flopped unto the floor and stared at the ceiling. He began to laugh, a laugh he used to shield his heart from the unceasing tears that mapped out his cheeks. He laughed until his eyes ached and his throat was sore, until he was an empty husk on the floor.

* * *

Something had changed. Grantaire spent the next few weeks riding out a new wave of determination. He spent hours in his studio, tracing out memories and dreams. He painted his flat, arranging his furniture differently and applying a fresh coat to the aged walls, like he so desperately wanted to paint his own soul, make it brighter. He drank less, but as he already had consumed an exorbitant amount, it was more to the effect of drinking with a semblance of moderation. He shaved more often and sometimes even brought out his guitar to pluck out old tunes that were bittersweet with memories slowly being replaced by new ones as he shook the dust from the melancholy notes.

Enjolras continued to stop by every once in a while, mostly when he was angry to let off some steam. Although Grantaire felt imbalanced and breathlessly awkward around him, he soon learned to somewhat relax and go about his own business. Enjolras came to Grantaire because he wanted to be left alone. And even though it hurt, Grantaire had always admired from afar. He could continue to do so, managing as he always had. They fell into a sort of pattern, ignoring each other at meetings and when Enjolras came over to avoid his friends who would surely question, Grantaire let him in and made him some decaffeinated tea before slinking off to shut himself into his studio or find some other activity that would keep him occupied because Enjolras was dangerous, Grantaire wasn't ready for the peril that his heart faced.

This dance of sorts was easily perfected by both parties and soon grew, if not comfortable, somewhat expected. Grantaire found that even though he had no idea why Enjolras deigned him worthy to spend time with, he grew to anticipate those moments when Enjolras rejected everyone else in favor of Grantaire's company. The novelty had not yet worn off and he found a shiver of delight tickling his spine every time he heard Enjolras' familiar knock on the door. Grantaire should have known that it would end soon, that he was building up hopes that would leave him destroyed when they failed to come true. Grantaire was inherently a pessimist, but he found that when it came to Enjolras, some of his childish vices had remained. It was only natural that he let himself start to believe, little by little, in the words Enjolras had spoken that night, that his art was worthwhile. He was far from showing anyone his art, but when he saw that painting of Cossette, an unfamiliar warmth spread in his stomach and his face felt hot.

It all came to a head a few months later. Enjolras was in a particularly foul mood, which Grantaire knew as soon as he heard the insistent knocking on the door. Those taps bespoke Enjolras' anger clearly and Grantaire's anxiety spiked. He went to open the door and caught a glimpse of the infamous brackets around Enjolras' mouth before he pushed past Grantaire, a storm of barely reigned in anger. Grantaire had no idea what the source of this anger was, but he sincerely hoped it had nothing to do with him. He closed the door softly and tiptoed to the kitchen to make some tea, debating whether or not he should but some sleeping pills in the drink before deciding against it. He could hear Enjolras' furious footsteps pacing back and forth in the next room, every so often the footsteps stopped while Enjolras railed against whoever it was that had caused the problem in rapid muttering that Grantaire did his best to hear, but in vain. He brought Enjolras his tea and went to retreat, wanting to get out of the way of Enjolras' destructive anger, but Enjolras stopped him.

"Why aren't you having any?"

Grantaire started. Enjolras had rarely made conversation with Grantaire if it wasn't an argument. He hardly initiated arguments either. Usually it was Grantaire who started them. "I was going to go work on a project.." Grantaire started off hesitantly.

"In your studio?" Enjolras asked, anger temporarily abated as curiosity overtook his expression.

Grantaire nodded numbly.

"Why did you drop out of school? You're a good artist, and you obviously have some passions that don't involve drinking. You're really good; why quit?"

Grantaire sighed. He really didn't want to have this conversation, but it seemed to distract Enjolras, his harsh expression had softened somewhat. So Grantaire sat down across from him, chewing his words carefully before he released them. "It wasn't really something that I felt connected to. They were all kind of pretentious snobs and they didn't accept me as a somewhat more liberal artist. I guess I got tired of having to defend my artwork that even I didn't like."

"Why don't you like your art?" Enjolras was genuinely interested now, leaning forward slightly.

"Every artist gets this. The more you paint something, the more you put yourself on that canvas. You lay yourself open in front of others and soon you begin to see all the ways it will always be imperfect and even though you spent so much time on it, it will never be how you imagined it. You begin to hate it because you hate all the imperfections and flaws that are put in such a vulnerable place that people can then judge it as art or not." Grantaire was a little breathless; he avoided looking at Enjolras, examining his own paint-stained hands. "I've never been very good at being vulnerable, exposed. I already know how worthless I am, I don't care to put it in an exhibition. I guess that has a lot to do with it." His words were soft, and his face was definitely heated, but he raised his eyes mockingly to Enjolras', not allowing himself to appear weak because nothing actually mattered anyway. Enjolras already found him worthless. Grantaire knew this already and was prepared to see the scorn in Enjolras' eyes.

But there wasn't any. Grantaire searched, but all he could find in those eyes was a softness that he didn't know how to deal with. He hadn't expected that and now he was unfamiliar ground. "Grantaire-" Enjolras began, his voice husky.

"No." Grantaire interrupted, his own voice shaky and a cold anger coiling in his stomach. "Please leave."

Confusion crossed Enjolras' face. "R? I don't understand."

Grantaire snapped. "You think you can just waltz in here and pretend like you care about me and my measly existence? You've already made it abundantly clear what you think of me and of my drinking between ignoring me at meetings and then only coming here when you're angry because you know I wouldn't dare to truly upset you. You treat me as worthless in front of our friends and when you come and wear holes in my carpet because of your pacing and then you think you can just throw me a bone? No. I'm done. I can't do this anymore. Just leave."

"What has gotten into you today? I just wanted a distraction from my anger and it only seemed polite to make conversation with you."

"That is the problem Enjolras. You only need me as a distraction, and I thought I could be happy with that, but I can't. Not when you pity me and only deign me worthy enough for a conversation about my art which I haven't shown anyone since I left school. This has been going on for months and you haven't said more than five words to me. Then today you can just talk to me because you want to distract yourself? No. Enjolras, I don't know how much you know about me, but I'd like you to leave right now. If you stay here I will do something we both regret." By this point Grantaire was breathing hard and clenching the table. He registered the fact that he would regret this immensely in a few minutes, but for now he only felt a biting anger in his throat that reminded him how close he was to bursting into tears. Enjolras had to leave now.

Enjolras seemed shocked to see such an outpouring of emotion from a man he must have believed apathetic, which while generally true, did not apply to this situation. "Grantaire, I'm sorry if I offended you, and I know I haven't been fair to you. But I don't think that you throwing me out of your apartment is a reasonable reaction to asking about your art." An astonishing combination of regret and defiance lined Enjolras' face.

The rage drained out of Grantaire, swirling away until it left him sagging against the table. Enjolras seemed to read this in his body language, see the anger receding. He relaxed and then started again when Grantaire said. "Just leave. Please." His voice was soft, but firm.

Enjolras seemed to hesitate, ready to protest, but then he saw the set of Grantaire's shoulders and knew that arguing wasn't going to help. He turned silently to head back to the door and Grantaire didn't let his eyes follow his tall frame, focusing on the cooling cup of tea by his hand. He heard the door shut firmly and counted to sixty, slowly and surely, just barely reigning in his anger before he reached sixty. When he was sure Enjolras was gone, he pushed himself up from his chair and calmly walked to his studio in measured steps. He shut the door behind him and let loose.

Within seconds, easels were scattered over the floor, paint splattered on the wall, brushes sprawled every which way. Grantaire only hesitated for one heartbeat before turning to his artwork with hands that clawed at the canvases furiously. He wasn't sure if the cold fist in his stomach was born of despair, anger or regret, but he knew that he had to find release somewhere, to let the pain out in something otherwise Grantaire would destroy himself rather than the products of hours of meticulous work. In the end, the only painting that remained was the one of Cossette, the painting Enjolras had complimented, the one whose eyes had so entranced him. Grantaire stood before it, chest heaving and staring at the painting with a visceral loathing that he felt in his intestines and the back of his throat. Slowly and with a purpose, he broke a wine bottle and used a shard to gouge out those eyes, smearing his blood on to the painting as he gripped the shard harder and harder, wanting proof that this nightmare was real, unable to believe that he had ruined it all with Enjolras just because he had asked about his art. When he had done the deed, he left the room without surveying his destruction and firmly closed the door to his studio, and to his heart, with a resounding click. He returned to the kitchen and saw the cup of tea that had been for Enjolras, now stone cold. And that was when the damn broke and the tears came, falling next to the cup as he slumped over the table, but never entering it.

* * *

Time passed slowly. Without Enjolras, Grantaire's empty life throbbed and he felt the pain in each movement. He mechanically went to work at the café and went home, never able to work up the effort to go to a bar. He stayed well away from any of the Les Amis haunts. His studio door stayed shut and he tiredly drank his way through bottles at a rapid pace that only seemed to accelerate as the weeks went on. He got texts and calls from the amis, but he ignored them. He got one from Enjolras that just said sorry. Grantaire threw his phone across the room upon seeing it. That period of his life was over, and a new one was beginning that didn't resemble life at all. After a few months, Grantaire had become somewhat used to the heavy stone in place of his heart and the hopelessness that gnawed at his belly.

Grantaire heard the knock in his bones and he glanced at the door, stomach lurching. Courfeyrac had already stopped by, as well as Bahorel and Feuilly, but he hadn't opened the door to them, sitting on the other side of the door as they tried to talk him into opening the door. Grantaire knew it would only hurt more, but he was a masochist at heart and things really couldn't get much worse than they had been. He was wrong. Grantaire resigned himself to listening to yet another friend attempting to persuade him to open the door. It was probably Joly or Bossuet this time. "Grantaire, open up." Grantaire froze because he knew that voice, and he had erased all hope of ever hearing it again.

"Fuck." Grantaire muttered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. This wasn't supposed to happen, he shouldn't be here." Yet he approached the door, unsure whether or not he was going to open it.

Enjolras pounded on his door. "I'm serious R. I know you're in there and I really need to see you." Grantaire's breath caught in his throat, but he didn't dare move. "Grantaire let me in."

Grantaire didn't ever stand a chance. He couldn't say no to Enjolras. He hadn't been prepared for Enjolras to return, yet his absence had made it all the more clear how much he was risking with Enjolras. Without Enjolras, his life was hollow, with him his life was less so, even if he spent most of it pining after him. It seemed that he was incapable of moving on. Before he realized it, the door was open and Enjolras stood before him and Grantaire's eyes swept over him, drinking him in, allowing himself to fall for this man yet again as he tried to believe that this an wasn't just a part of the reoccurring dreams that haunted his frigid, empty bed every night.

"Grantaire." Enjolras breathes, his eyes colliding with Grantaire's and this had to be a dream because Enjolras never looked at him like that in reality. Enjolras used Grantaire's disbelief to step over the threshold and shut the door behind him. Enjolras kept his distance, his hands twitching towards Grantaire before Enjolras shoved them in his pockets. He didn't take off his shoes or his jacket; he just stood there studying Grantaire with an eager and abashed expression on his face and a trace of regret in his eyes.

"Why are you here?" Grantaire was proud of the strength of his voice and the steadiness with which he gazed at Enjolras.

"I'm here to apologize." Enjolras was looking at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but at Grantaire. His foot scuffed the carpet. "I realize that I haven't been treating you like I should and I feel that I owe you an explanation."

Grantaire snorted. "Damn right you do. Start with why the fuck you ever thought it would be a good idea to come to my apartment of all places when you're pissed because that sounds like suicide to me. I'm surprised we lasted that long."

Enjolras looked taken aback by the venom in Grantaire's voice but decided that the best thing to do was to explain himself. "I don't know what made me come the first time, I had gotten into a fight with my parents about my life choices and I could hear your voice in my head telling me that parents never understand their children and I thought you would understand how I felt and then I found myself in front of your apartment and you actually let me in and it just struck me how much I didn't know about you and the studio showed me this whole other side of you that I didn't know and that's when I realized it. You didn't have any paintings of me. You painted every single one of your friends but I'm never depicted, not even in some of the paintings of the whole group. That's when I knew that I had to reconcile myself with you. I know that you hate me, but I just kept coming back because I thought that if I showed you that I trust you completely and that I could be around you without criticizing you but it all backfired when I tried to make our friendship more solid. And—Grantaire? Are you ok?"

Grantaire had sat on the floor, unable to believe what he was hearing."You think that I hate you?"

A cautious hope crossed Enjolras' face. "Yes, you didn't have any paintings of me and you hardly ever talk to me outside of arguments."

Grantaire shook his head in disbelief. "I wish I could hate you Apollo. Alas, I cannot. I have tried and it has proven to be impossible."

Hurt flashed across Enjolras' face before it was quickly masked. "How is that supposed to make me feel any better about our relationship Grantaire?" There was an edge to Enjolras' voice that Grantaire seemed to catch. He looked up at Enjolras and stood up slowly, straightening himself to his full height, a mere inches shorter than Enjolras.

"It isn't supposed to Enjolras. Our relationship is pretty fucked up and I don't know if I could be your friend." The words were whispered with an awareness of their destructive power. Enjolras' face fell and he turned to leave before hesitating and letting his footsteps lead him to the studio. "No, Enjolras, don't—" But it was too late; the door swung open to the wreckage within and Enjolras gasped.

"What did you do?" His eyes scanned the damage before they caught on the painting of Cossette, bloodied and with gouged out eyes. They widened and he seemed to freeze as everything fell into place. Grantaire could see the exact moment when it clicked. And he turned away in shame. Enjolras knew then; he knew that lowly Grantaire had dared to love a god. Enjolras turned towards him and pushed Grantaire back against the wall before bringing their mouths together with a clash of teeth.

Grantaire had not foreseen this turn of events. He responded automatically, lifting his hands to the back of Enjolras' neck and burying his fingers in his hair, as Grantaire had wanted to do when he first saw him. But then he realized that this was Enjolras, and this couldn't really be happening because since when did Enjolras like anyone, least of all him. He regretfully removed his hands from Enjolras' hair and pushed him away firmly. "Enjolras, you don't want me."

"I think I can decide that for myself," Enjolras said, voice deeper than usual. His eyes pierced Grantaire's and ohmygod, his pupils were wide with desire and Grantaire felt his knees weaken slightly. Grantaire crossed his arms in order to stop himself from reaching out to Enjolras again.

"No, you don't Enjolras. I'm messed up, and you yourself said that we're hardly friends. I'm not good at the relationship thing. I just have sex. I can't handle feelings. Just look at what happened when I tried." Grantaire gestured towards the studio.

Enjolras stepped forward. Grantaire could count his eyelashes. He might have done that it the next words out of Enjolras' mouth weren't "I don't care. I love you. We'll figure it out together. That is, if you actually have feelings for me. Courfeyrac assured me that you did and I usually wouldn't trust him but both Combeferre and Jehan backed him up so I followed their advice and now I'm here and I'm quite obviously babbling right now but I'm nervous that you're going to say no and you've been gone from my life for weeks and I've realized that bring color to my life. And I'd like you in it. If you are agreeable to the idea of course."

Grantaire's jaw had dropped progressively lower with every word that had left Enjolras' mouth. "I would believe that this is a dream, but your confession was so Enjolras. It wasn't even this spot on in my dreams."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "You dreamed about us?"

Grantaire laughed bitterly. "Even cynics dream of the impossible Enjolras."

"But why don't you paint me?" Enjolras' voice was soft and he looked unsure as to whether he wanted to hear the answer.

Grantaire's eyes met Enjolras' and he whispered, "I'm not worthy. I could never get you right."

Enjolras let out a breath like a sigh and said, "Grantaire, I realize that I have only ever been harsh to you but I have seen the error in my ways. You are so talented and loving and you're a friend to everyone. You know the best places to eat in town. You're eyes light up like beacons when you smile and your laugh makes my stomach tingle. You are more than worthy, in fact I hardly feel that I am worthy of you on account of all the cruel things I have said and done to you in the past. Can you forgive me?"

"It is already forgiven." Grantaire's eyes are filled with tears. Enjolras thought himself unworthy of him. Hesitantly he reached towards Enjolras, entwining their hands and Enjolras smiled before leaning in to kiss his nose.

"In that case, Grantaire, would you care to go on a date with me?"

Grantaire looked as if he had been hit over the head with a cement brick, but he nodded slowly before wrapping Enjolras into a trembling hug. Grantaire was too dazed to notice a small tear of joy escape Enjolras' eye, but Enjolras smiled and let it be because Grantaire's arms around him were anchoring him to this moment and to the many to come.

* * *

The next day Enjolras awoke to a cold empty bed. Startled, he sat up, only to hear noises from the other room. Enjolras headed towards the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, but popped his tousled hair into the studio, smiling at the sight of Grantaire, clad only in Enjolras' boxers, with the paintbrush once again in his hand and ready to face the world.


End file.
